They had been at it a fortnight, and if any music was in the ring of the axe or the rattle of the pick when commencing, there was none now.
Dad wished to be cheerful and complacent.

He said (putting the pick down and dragging his flannel off to wring it): "It's a good thing to sweat well." Dave did n't say anything.

I don't know what he thought, but he looked up at Dad--just looked up at him--while the perspiration filled his eyes and ran down over his nose like rain off a shingle; then he hitched up his pants and "wired in" again.
Dave was a philosopher.

He worked away until the axe flew off the handle with a ring and a bound, and might have been lost in the long grass for ever only Dad stopped it with his shin.

I fancy he did n't mean to stop it when I think how he jumped--it was the only piece of excitement there had been the whole of that relentlessly solemn fortnight.